Page 58 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

“You’re getting one,” I snickered, already turning back toward the weapons table. “Right after this, I’m designing you a patch. ‘Raccoon General.’”

“Better than Queen of the Rotten Fish,” she muttered under her breath.

I grinned as I grabbed my rifle and turned back to the door.

The house was secure. The bodies were restrained. And Gabby was still standing—sharp, steady, and unshaken.

But it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Gabby

One of the zip-tied guys started to stir with a low groan, his head lolling like he’d just woken up from a bender in a swamp—which, to be fair, he sort of had.

I was already crouched in front of him with a flashlight under my chin like some kind of unhinged camp counselor.

“Rise and shine, swamp muffin,” I cooed, tapping the bottom of my flashlight against his boot. “Time for a little heart-to-heart.”

He blinked blearily at me, trying to focus, then jerked his arms, realizing they were bound. “What the?—”

“Easy now,” Eddie warned, stepping up behind me like a calm, sensible shadow. “We’ve got some questions, and you’re gonna answer them.”

The guy sneered. “You've got no idea who you’re messing with.”

“Actually,” I chirped, holding my hand in the air, “I do! You’re part of the Dumbass Express that tried to sneak up on this house, in this swamp, where I happen to be the unofficial ruler of all things unhinged and possibly rabid.”

The man stared at me.

Eddie didn’t even look at me, even though I knew he was doing his best not to laugh. “Start talking. Who sent you?”

He didn’t answer—just fixed Eddie with a stubborn glare that said plenty on its own.

“Okay,” I drawled sweetly, setting the flashlight down and pulling out a dented can from behind me. I held it up like a magician about to reveal her best trick. “This, my dear swamp invader, is three-year expired tuna in mustard sauce. It's a one-of-a-kind.”

He frowned. “What are?—”

I leaned in. “You know what happens when you crack this bad boy open in an enclosed space?”

Webb, seated on the edge of the table across the room, coughed like he’d already smelled it.

“You get thirty-seven raccoons,” I whispered. “Minimum. And that’s not counting the angry possum who’s been very protective of me since I fed him.”

Eddie rubbed his temple. “Gabby…”

“No, no,” I insisted, waving him off. “He needs to understand the gravity of the situation. These aren’t normal raccoons, they're military grade. I’ve trained them using expired Spam and cheese puffs, and they fear nothing. Not even man.”

The guy opened his mouth, then closed it again. Probably trying to decide if I was serious. Spoiler: I wasn't entirely, but he didn’t need to know that.

Eddie knelt down in front of him, eyes sharp. “We know you’re not from around here, and we know you’re not working alone. Who are you reporting to?”

He remained stubbornly silent.

I cracked the can slightly and waved it in front of the guy’s face. The faintest whiff escaped, and he flinched like I’d hit him with a blast of pepper spray.

“That’s just the preview,” I teased, grinning. “I open this all the way, and by morning, we’ll be digging you out from under a furry avalanche.”

Webb sighed from his seat, “I can’t believe this is working.”

“I can,” I answered proudly, straightening up. “Fear is a versatile tool.”

---